


The World Turns, and You With It

by rossumtrinity (ezlybored)



Series: Trekformers [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Gen, Worm-Related Identity Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-25 18:16:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20916446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ezlybored/pseuds/rossumtrinity
Summary: Three weeks after the discovery of the Bajoran wormhole, Optimus Prime wakes up in the sickbay of Terok Nor to some disturbing news. Megatron is missing, the Bajoran Kai has declared him the Emissary of the Prophets, and he is no longer Optimus Prime.He does not take this news well.(A TF Star Trek AU based mostly off of the 2005 IDW continuity; see series description/fic notes for more details.)





	The World Turns, and You With It

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the first finished, published fic for my Transformers Star Trek AU, aka Trekformers! You can find more posts about/art for this AU in [my tag](https://rossumtrinity.tumblr.com/tagged/trekformers) or on [this sideblog](https://trekformers.tumblr.com).
> 
> This fic is something of a mashup of the ST:DS9 pilot, "Emissary," and the one-shot comic "The Death of Optimus Prime," so if you haven't watched/read either of those, this fic might be a little confusing. I try to explain most Star Trek concepts organically in the fic itself, but [this primer](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1vJZ0AdvbdZ820x8RTRojI9e_9_P6hOI2uCW6aS6a8pY/edit?usp=sharing) might be helpful to refer to as you read if you're unfamiliar with Trek.
> 
> I don't think any content warnings are necessary for this fic, but if you think there's something I should give a heads-up about, please leave a comment below or [send me an ask.](https://rossumtrinity.tumblr.com/ask)

Optimus woke up in sickbay feeling like garbage. The experience was not unfamiliar. 

This particular sickbay, though, was definitely unfamiliar, and didn't look Starfleet standard by any means. Combined with the fact that Optimus couldn't yet remember what had landed him in sickbay, his weariness was beginning to fade away. Alarm took its place.

Before he panicked, he needed to at least get his bearings. He wasn't restrained, which was a good sign. His hospital gown was too generic for Optimus to determine if it was Starfleet or not. Trying not to give away that he was awake just yet, Optimus took a quick look around the room, eyes only half open. To his left, generic medical consoles. To his right, Ratchet, walking towards him while studying a padd.

That was familiar. Optimus relaxed, opening his eyes fully. A moment later, he reconsidered and braced himself for a dressing-down about being too cavalier with his own safety.

When Ratchet came to a stop next to him, however, all he said was, "You're awake." The words came out a tired monotone, but relief was recognizable underneath. No lecture seemed forthcoming. Odd, but Optimus wouldn't question his good fortune.

Perhaps Ratchet was just too tired to get heated. There were dark circles under his eyes, his movements were slow and weary, his hair was mussed like he'd been running his hands through it over and over again. Optimus suppressed the urge to ask Ratchet if he'd been sleeping alright—Ratchet would just tell him to worry about himself first. Instead, he watched mutely as Ratchet glanced at an overhead monitor and then down at Optimus, before asking, "How are you feeling?"

Optimus sighed and allowed his eyes to close. "Awful." He heard Ratchet huff out a laugh beside him and considered what to ask him first. A general question ought to cover most of what he was wondering. "What happened?"

Ratchet stayed silent for a second too long. 

Optimus opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows, worried that he'd assumed he was safe too soon at the sight of his CMO. Searching Ratchet's face told him nothing, his expression carefully neutral. That couldn't mean anything good. 

Looking back up at the monitor, calm and professional, Ratchet asked, "You don't remember?" Optimus resisted the urge to crane his neck and see the monitor for himself; for all the time he’d spent in sickbay, he still hadn’t learned what the results on the monitor actually meant.

When he took a second to think about it, past the exhaustion clouding his mind, the last thing he remembered was... Galvatron moving Terok Nor, revealing the existence of a wormhole to the Gamma Quadrant, and insisting that the wormhole had to be destroyed. He'd been desperate enough to take a runabout and try to blow it up from the inside once his attempts to use Terok Nor had been thwarted. Optimus had followed him, along with Ironhide, Rodimus, and Drift, and inside the wormhole—

Optimus sat up abruptly, giving Ratchet a start. "There are lifeforms in the wormhole," he said urgently. "After we stopped Galvatron from destroying it, they tried to communicate with me. They’re,” he struggled to find the right word, “_bizarre._ They’re so... radically different from us, I had to explain the concept of linear time to them, and they kept saying…” Optimus trailed off. Ratchet wasn't reacting with the surprise he'd expected.

He was forgetting something more, he knew, but he didn’t know what it was. Something was… missing, and he couldn't remember—

Optimus came to the sudden realization that he was no longer Optimus Prime.

Orion Pax said, "The symbiont is gone." 

Ratchet sucked in air through his teeth, grimacing. "Yeah."

Galvatron had shot him, he remembered now. At that close range, his own survival was almost miraculous. The odds of the symbiont making it were infinitesimal.

This feeling, of being alone, of knowing there was something he'd forgotten, was not unfamiliar. That didn't make it any easier to take. "How long do I have?"

Again, Ratchet was silent for a second too long. Orion was halfway to coming to terms with his death when Ratchet exhaled and said, "That's the thing, Optimus. Whatever happened in the wormhole, you were in there for three weeks." 

Three weeks? It had been disorienting, in that place inside the wormhole, but Orion was certain he hadn't spent _three weeks_ there. He was too confused to comment, listening in complete bewilderment as Ratchet continued. "After you stopped Galvatron, _something_ booted everyone other than you out of the wormhole, closed the wormhole too while it was at it. According to the Bajorans, their gods live in the wormhole, so they weren't very happy that our meddling caused it to close." 

Ratchet crossed his arms, looking displeased. "Then earlier today the wormhole opened again, and you showed up in Ops, said some gibberish, and collapsed. Scared the shit out of us, especially once we realized the Prime symbiont was gone." He waved the padd he was holding, and Orion realized it detailed the results of various medical exams. It told Orion virtually nothing. "But I've run every test on you I could think of. As far as I can tell, Optimus, you're going to live."

That statement took a moment to process. It was impossible. Ratchet sounded just as confused saying it as Orion felt hearing it. But Ratchet wouldn't lie to him. 

Optimus—Optimus Prime was dead. Orion Pax was going to live, without the Prime symbiont. 

He wasn't sure if it was better news than his imminent death. "Orion," he corrected distantly. If he wasn't dying, he'd be having to correct a lot of people, so he ought to start as soon as possible.

Ratchet gave him a confused look for a second before it clicked. "Right. Orion." The name sounded clumsy in his mouth, unfamiliar, but Ratchet had made the transition from Orion to Optimus, and he'd be able to make the change back, given enough time. 

Glancing at the monitor one last time, Ratchet said, "Well, Orion, there's nothing wrong with you that I can fix. If you're feeling up to it, a lot of people want to talk to you. You might even be able to convince someone to give you a tour."

Staying in sickbay and avoiding the rest of the world was a tempting offer, but not one Orion would ever take when there was much to be done. He swung his feet over the side of the bed with some reluctance before he realized there was something he still needed to ask. "A tour? Where exactly are we?"

"Shit, right,” Ratchet muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Sorry, completely slipped my mind that you wouldn't know." He stepped back, using one hand to gesture widely to the room around them. "Orion, welcome to Terok Nor."

* * *

_This wasn't the wormhole. _

_Optimus recognized this scene: Rodimus, freshly changed out of a hospital gown into a Starfleet uniform, himself again and not a composite of eight people, eight sets of memories._

_He didn't recognize this: Rodimus looked at him, tired beyond his years, opened his mouth and said, "It is corporeal. A physical entity."_

_Optimus blinked. "What?"_

_A shift: Megatron, young, in a cadet's uniform, leaning back in his chair farther than was safe. A habit he'd developed mostly to rile up Orion. "It is responding to visual and auditory stimuli. Linguistic communication."_

_The initial shock was wearing off. Optimus had enough data to extrapolate from. He'd been in the wormhole, and he had no reason to believe he'd left. Some manner of lifeform was attempting to communicate with him, utilizing his memories as a backdrop. Their statements indicated a kind of cold curiosity, but not aggression._

_This was a situation he could handle._

_He inhaled, giving himself space to think. "Linguistic communication," Optimus repeated, and almost laughed. He held up the padd he was holding in the memory, as Orion. "I studied linguistics. Exactly for this reason, actually. First contact with alien lifeforms. But you seem to be able to communicate with me perfectly well."_

* * *

"A name change is in the works," Rodimus said, his distasteful expression making clear what his opinion on the name 'Terok Nor' was, "but before that happens, we need to hash out whether the station is going to be a Starfleet one or a Bajoran one. And before _that_ happens, there's the Decepticons to deal with." 

Originally, Rodimus had intended to give Orion a tour of the station. This had been quickly sidetracked by the need to catch Orion up on the events of the past three weeks, leaving them standing in front of a closed storefront in the promenade, conversing in low voices. A mix of Bajoran civilians and Starfleet officers milled around them, a sight Orion was struggling to get used to. A sight that the Decepticons, still at large, posed a threat to. 

Of course, one brief instance of cooperation against Galvatron couldn't bring an end to a drawn-out civil war. Orion had hoped that it would be a start, at least, but there was clearly still work to be done. "Are the Bajorans in any danger?"

That took Rodimus aback. "No—well, not exactly," he said. For a moment he was silent, looking at the floor with a frown. "No, I phrased that poorly. Megatron's, uh." Rodimus grimaced. "He's gone missing."

"_What?_" Orion was too shocked for the word to come out as anything more than a harsh whisper. It was still loud enough to make Rodimus flinch, raising his eyes to meet Orion's again.

"We think he went through the wormhole with some other Decepticons, but we don't have the resources to spare to go look for him." The explanation sounded like one Rodimus had probably repeated to himself many times over the past three weeks, spoken quickly and devoid of emotion. "In the meantime, the Decepticons were all pretty disoriented after… everything, so we managed to round them up without much trouble. They don't really seem to know what to do without Megatron."

"Is Starscream missing, too?"

"Starscream's holed up in the Nemesis, as far as I know. Probably scheming." Rodimus shrugged. "We're not too worried about him. Kind of funny, right? All those plots to backstab Megatron, all those declarations that he'd lead the Decepticons, but Megatron's gone and he's doing nothing. Even if he's second-in-command, no one likes him enough to follow him." 

Whatever humor was in the situation, Orion couldn't appreciate it. Even if Starscream wasn't a problem, which Orion doubted, Megatron was somewhere out there in the galaxy. Three weeks was plenty of time for him to get far away from Starfleet, whether or not he'd gone through the wormhole. "Did Megatron take a ship with a cloaking device?"

Somewhat stiffly, Rodimus replied, "Too many Decepticon ships were destroyed for us to tell, unless we wanted to try combing through all the debris floating out there." He tapped a finger against his thigh and looked around, nervous. 

Something caught his attention. Rodimus' fidgeting stilled, brows furrowing in concentration. Orion followed his line of sight to see a group of three Bajorans rather obviously watching them and talking amongst themselves, though they were too far away to be overheard. 

Realizing they'd been noticed, the Bajorans' conversation came to a halt. After a moment of hesitation, a short Bajoran woman peeled off from the group and began to approach. 

Rodimus sprung into action, giving Orion a quick, "One second," before immediately moving to intercept her.

Rodimus caught the woman before she'd had the chance to walk five feet, launching into an array of hand gestures and speaking in a low voice. Orion overheard only snatches of what he said, but from the sound of it, Rodimus seemed to be making excuses for Orion. A quick conversation followed, the Bajoran woman protesting and Rodimus doing his best to placate her. Both Rodimus and the woman were gesturing towards Orion far too often for his comfort.

Eventually, though she was clearly disappointed, the woman seemed to understand she wouldn't be talking to Orion anytime soon. Rodimus offered her an apologetic smile as she turned away and regrouped with her friends. Orion couldn't imagine why she'd wanted to talk to him. He was certainly in no condition to talk to civilians at the moment, three weeks behind on current events.

Rodimus quickly made his way back to Orion. "Sorry about that." Instead of explaining what had just happened, Rodimus quickly went on before Orion could ask any questions. "Where were we?" 

It was a transparent change of subject, but Orion let it go. The Bajoran woman and her friends were a minor curiosity compared to the much more important matter at hand, which Orion let Rodimus figure out on his own. When Rodimus inhaled sharply and looked away, Orion knew he'd remembered that they'd been discussing Megatron. 

Rodimus rubbed the back of his neck, taking a moment to think. "Right. Uh. The fact of the matter is, we've been busy the past three weeks with plenty of things that aren't Megatron." He began to count off on his fingers. "Bajor wants Bajoran Decepticons to come home. Some 'cons want to return to Starfleet, or join Starfleet, so mostly Prowl's been figuring out some kind of program for that. Soundwave's got a group that wants to start a Decepticon colony. Decepticon sovereignty—that's another thing we're figuring out."

Rodimus sighed, letting the hand he'd been counting on fall to his side. "That's not even getting into—well, like I said earlier, we're still figuring things out with the station. Not to mention just _fixing_ the thing. The Cardies and the 'cons weren't especially gentle with it." 

In his most noncommittal tone of voice, Orion said, "I see," and found he couldn't come up with an adequate response.

Compared to everything Rodimus had detailed, Orion knew intellectually that Megatron was just one person, even if that one person was the leader of the Decepticons. Some kind of half-formed peace had come into being here, and it made perfect sense to prioritize that. It was the smart decision. If—when Megatron returned, Decepticons who had settled into new lives, or back into old ones, might be less willing to follow him again.

Orion knew he should praise Rodimus for his hard work or say something congratulatory. What he wanted to do was insist upon finding Megatron, say he'd take a ship himself if he had to. He split the difference and held his tongue.

Before an awkward silence could settle in, Orion and Rodimus both spotted Bumblebee, coming towards them at a brisk pace. Tension drained from Rodimus' frame. "Looks like Bumblebee's got some important news," he said, unable to hide his relief at an easy out from the conversation.

A few moments later Bumblebee came to a stop in front of Orion and Rodimus. Much like everyone else Orion had seen since he'd woken up, Bumblebee looked harried, his uniform rumpled, bags under his eyes. 

"Sorry to spring this on you when you just got out of sickbay, Admiral," he began with a sympathetic wince, "but there's a whole bunch of Bajoran big shots who've been falling over themselves to meet you since they heard you woke up." Bumblebee waved a hand helplessly. "I've tried my best to fend them off, but I really can't say no to the Kai."

"What does Kai Incaendium want with me?" As the only Starfleet admiral in reach, Orion wouldn't have been surprised if some Bajoran politicians wanted to talk to him, but the Kai? 

Rodimus and Bumblebee exchanged a look.

Orion could feel a headache coming on. "Just tell me."

Rodimus cleared his throat and gestured to Bumblebee. "You were just talking to the Kai, I'm sure you can explain it better."

Bumblebee gave Rodimus a dirty look, but didn't protest. "I can _try_. I'll talk while we head towards Ops." He gestured for them to walk forward, falling into step by Orion's side. "How much do you know about the Bajoran religion?"

Strange. Nothing came to mind. While Orion would never have called himself an expert on Bajoran culture, he was certain that at some point he'd been fairly well-versed in the subject. He just couldn't seem to… "Not much," he admitted. "I know the Kai is their religious leader, but that's about it."

"Really? I mean, uh." For a moment Bumblebee floundered, but he recovered quickly and assured, "It's not _that_ hard to understand. The Bajorans worship the Prophets, who live in the Celestial Temple, and they send these Orbs to Bajor which give people these visions—that's not really relevant. So the Celestial Temple, that's the wormhole. And because you spent three weeks in the wormhole and when you came back—" Here Bumblebee paused. "Do you remember when you showed up in Ops?"

Orion shook his head. "No, not clearly. Ratchet told me I 'said some gibberish' and fainted."

That description got a chuckle out of Bumblebee. "We only called him in after you fainted, I'm not sure who he heard about the 'gibberish' from. You said you'd met lifeforms in the wormhole, more or less."

"Your phrasing was a lot less clear than that," Rodimus interjected. "It took us a minute to puzzle out."

"Anyway," Bumblebee continued, not even glancing at Rodimus, "all the Bajorans in Ops heard that, too. There'd already been buzz about you being in the wormhole for three weeks, but now? The Kai is saying you talked with the Prophets, and most of Bajor is taking her word for it. That would make you the Emissary."

They'd arrived at the turbolift; as Orion stepped in, he turned over the new information in his head. Though he wasn't fully aware of what the Emissary was, being a named figure in a religion he didn’t adhere to didn't sound ideal. "What does my being the Emissary entail?"

Rodimus directed the turbolift to go to Ops, looking anywhere but at Bumblebee or Orion. Bumblebee cleared his throat and adjusted his uniform. Orion waited.

As the turbolift began to move, Bumblebee exhaled and said, "The Emissary speaks for the Prophets. The Bajorans worship the Prophets. Which makes the Emissary incredibly influential, possibly more so than the Kai. _Possibly_." Bumblebee repeated the 'possibly' as if it at all softened the impact of what he'd just said.

"Oh," Orion said weakly. "I see."

He rubbed his temples, grateful for the silence that descended on the turbolift giving him space to think. Now the encounter with that Bajoran woman earlier made sense, as well as Rodimus' unwillingness to explain the incident. Later, he’d confront Rodimus about his unproductive avoidance of uncomfortable subjects, but at the moment, Orion apparently had a meeting with the Kai to worry about.

Orion had a meeting with the _Kai_, and he knew next to nothing about the Bajoran religion anymore. But he did know how to get through difficult diplomatic situations. He could come out the other side of this one intact, he was certain.

* * *

_Optimus recognized this scene: Prowl, his face serious, his voice low, detailing the cold facts of their situation in the utter silence of the observation lounge. “What are you?” _

_“I’m a Trill. I suppose that doesn’t mean much to you, though,” Optimus mused. “I’ve met my fair share of aliens, but you seem quite unique.”_

_A shift: Galvatron on the viewscreen, impossibly alive. He bared his teeth, snarled, "The creature is aggressive. We must destroy it."_

_"I have no aggressive intentions," Optimus insisted, holding his hands out in a gesture of peace. "You seem to draw on my memories. If you look through them, you will find that I am no danger to you."_

_Another shift; Optimus was starting to give up hope that they'd become less disorienting. Shockwave, both eyes intact, smiled at him, sitting with one arm stretched out over the back of a park bench. "Its memories?"_

_"Events that happened in the past." Optimus swallowed. "Like this one."_

_Shockwave leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Past?"_

_"Things that happened before now," Optimus said slowly, before he pieced it together. "You have no idea what I'm talking about. You don't understand linear time."_

* * *

A muffled sound brought Orion out of his thoughts. He frowned, straining to identify the source; there were voices, he realized, _raised_ voices, which were only becoming clearer as the turbolift ascended. 

By the time it came to a halt in Ops, it was clear to see, and hear, that Prowl was involved in a rather heated discussion with a Bajoran man, facing each other across the central control panel. Orion only caught the tail end of the man's sentence—"Passing off a _Starfleet admiral_ as the _Emissary?_"—and winced, wondering just how divided Bajoran opinion was on him.

Both Prowl and the Bajoran man turned sharply to look at Orion the moment he took a step out of the turbolift, Bumblebee and Rodimus hovering by either side of him. Prowl stood to attention, his demeanor shifting in an instant from cold contempt to a polite neutrality. The Bajoran man narrowed his eyes. He started to say something, no doubt a biting insult of some kind, but Prowl quickly cut him off.

“Admiral Prime,” he said, stepping forward and gesturing to the Bajoran man, “this is the Bajoran liaison officer, Metalhawk. We were just discussing the issue of ownership of the station.” 

Metalhawk's attention instantly snapped back to Prowl. He wasn't wearing an earring like most Bajorans, Orion realized, though he wasn't certain what that signified. "Bajoran hands made Terok Nor. Bajoran lives were _lost_ in the making of Terok Nor." Metalhawk shook his head firmly. "There's no discussion to be had here. The station is, and will remain, Bajoran territory."

Prowl sighed. "Bajoran territory you're not capable of defending—"

"But you can help us defend it, right? That's what Megatron said. You're only here to help, of course. That's what the _Cardassians_ said. I know," Metalhawk continued, when Prowl opened his mouth to retort, "that the provisional government officially requested Federation assistance, and officially, I will respect that decision. But on a personal level, I don't trust any of you. Even if Kai Incaendium is saying that admiral of yours is the Emissary." He gave Orion a pointed glare.

Bumblebee, thankfully, saved Orion from having to think of some way to respond. "Speaking of the Kai," he cut in, forcing a light tone of voice, "she's waiting for you in the commander's office, Optimus—Orion."

The reminder of the Kai's presence seemed to quell the argument, for the time being. Metalhawk still looked irked, but he wasn't glaring daggers at Orion anymore. Bumblebee pointed out a set of doors across Ops, overlooking the entire area. "She wanted to speak with you alone."

Orion looked over to the doors with a sense of increasing apprehension. Of course Cardassian design would elevate the commander's office, forcing everyone in Ops to look up to it. The effect was daunting, especially knowing who was inside.

Throat choked with dread, Orion only just managed a quick, "Thank you, Bumblebee." 

And then there was nothing he could do to delay. 

Everyone fell quiet, leaving only the soft sound of Orion's footsteps, making his way across Ops in long, quick strides. 

The doors to the commander's office opened before him. Orion stepped in, and the doors shut, leaving him and the Kai alone.

Incaendium was facing the window of the office when Orion entered. She waited a moment, the room deathly still, before she turned to face him and said, "Hello, Emissary." 

She was taller than Orion—not by much, though Orion was unused to meeting anyone taller than him—and plainly clothed, swathed in simple, unpatterned fabrics, the only remotely extravagant thing about her the traditional earring dangling from her right ear. Still, there was a regal authority in her bearing. She exuded calm confidence, a complete, unshakeable certainty in herself, her views, and her actions. 

Under her keen eye, Orion felt small and inexperienced. He froze as she approached him, startling into taking a step back when she extended a hand.

He froze again in confusion when she grabbed his ear. For a moment the Kai's brows were furrowed in intense focus, and then she seemed to be satisfied with whatever she was doing, let go of Orion's ear, and stepped back.

"Your _pagh_ is strong," Incaendium said approvingly. "I'm glad I was not mistaken. Prophecy is never wrong, but it can be vague."

Everything that had happened in the past minute provided more questions than answers. One thing at a time, though, and the most important first. "Prophecy?" Orion asked, and immediately wished he'd spared a thought to phrasing that in a better way.

"In the prophecy of the Emissary's arrival, it was said that the Prophets would call the Emissary to them," Incaendium explained. "That they would give him back his life. The first part is clear: you went into the Celestial Temple and spoke with the Prophets. The second part is more ambiguous."

_Give him back his life._ Orion glanced downwards. He didn't want to feed the idea that he was some kind of Bajoran religious figure, but he could certainly see how that might apply to him.

Returning his attention to the Kai, Orion found her looking at him intently. "Perhaps you have some idea," she suggested. While she probably hadn't read Orion's thoughts, which was the first idea that had sprung into his head, the Kai was practiced in reading people. Orion didn't want to risk lying to her.

He sighed. "Do you know much about Trills? Specifically, the process of joining."

"No, I'm afraid not. Explain."

A very simplified explanation, then. "Trill is home to two major sentient species. There are Trills, of course, like myself and Rodimus Prime, who you may have seen in Ops. The symbionts are the other, lesser-known species. Certain Trills, myself—_previously_ included, become joined." Orion had to consciously resist getting into his personal criticisms of Trill society's view of joining. Gritting his teeth, he continued on. "Joined Trills host a symbiont inside our bodies, in the process gaining the memories of all the past hosts of that symbiont."

"Previously included," Incaendium repeated. "You no longer host a symbiont?"

"The Prime symbiont died, in the wormhole." Hearing himself say the words was jarring. People didn't talk about symbionts dying. They weren't supposed to die, that was the point. But Optimus—Orion—"I should have died with it."

Orion could see the moment realization dawned on the Kai. "The Prophets intervened," she said, awe in her voice. Orion's skin crawled.

"We don't have an explanation for why I survived at the moment," he said quickly. "There's no proof that the Prophets had anything to do with it." Never mind that no other explanation for Orion’s survival was anywhere near the realm of plausibility. 

"I see." Judging by Incaendium's raised eyebrows, she didn't buy it, and was simply choosing not to comment to avoid pointless debate. She looked away for a moment. When her gaze returned to Orion, her expression had changed from skepticism to genuine curiosity. "The death of the symbiont, what does that mean for you?"

Where to begin answering that? Orion covered his mouth with one hand and exhaled, slow, through his nose. He shifted his hand to rest on the back of his neck before he said anything. 

"It means," he began shakily, "that I don't have the symbiont's memories anymore. I still have all of... _mine_, for lack of a better word, but I've lost knowledge I lived with for over a decade.” The worst part wasn’t even the forgetting, it was knowing he could never remember again. “It means that I'm Orion Pax now, not Optimus Prime." 

“Orion Pax was your name before you were joined?" Incaendium asked. Just a name. She wasn't wrong, but… Orion nodded anyway. "So one _could_ say that the Prophets gave Orion Pax back his life.”

Orion couldn’t answer that. 

Before he’d been joined, all those years ago, he’d never wanted to be Prime. He’d wanted to stay Orion Pax, be known for his own accomplishments without tying them to a symbiont whose name would overshadow his own. That had been decades ago.

In the here and now, Orion Pax crossed his arms, looking out the same window Incaendium had been occupied with when he’d entered. Unfamiliar stars stared back at him. He wondered if he’d have been able to identify them, had he looked out this window only a month before.

"I—” Orion caught himself before he could say ‘I suppose’ and quickly began his sentence again. “I’m sorry, Eminence, but whether or not I fulfill the prophecy is irrelevant. I can't be the Emissary—it's not appropriate for me to… exert religious or political influence on Bajor. It’s not a Federation planet."

The Kai stared at him, and Orion was keenly aware of the height advantage she had over him. She said, slow and precise, "Haven't you already?"

Orion faltered. "I'm not sure I understand."

"When the Cardassians occupied Bajor, the Federation chose to stand by and watch, and so they had the freedom to brutalize us. One of yours took the Cardassians' place, and then you ousted him. It's far too late for the Federation to avoid 'exerting influence' on Bajor. The _least_ you could do is admit it."

Listening only to the Kai’s voice, calm and measured, she might as well have been giving a sermon. But there was a force to her words that belied her anger. She watched Orion like she was casting judgment.

This diplomatic situation, Orion was realizing, might be one he wasn’t prepared to handle. 

He swallowed, and made his best effort to speak with an even mix of compassion and authority. “The occupation of Bajor was a great tragedy. As was Megatron’s rule.” That was the wrong thing to say, cowardly, trite. Everything was the wrong thing to say. Orion pressed on. “But the two situations… Megatron _was_ one of ours. His actions were not... representative of the Federation, but we had to take responsibility for him as a former Starfleet captain. The occupation…” He sighed. “You must understand, the Prime Directive is one of the fundamental principles of Starfleet. We cannot interfere in the affairs of other civilizations.”

"Unfortunate that the Cardassians did not have their own Prime Directive.” The Kai turned sharply, hands clasped behind her back, and returned to her previous position at the window. “Which left them free to colonize territory outside of the Federation as they saw fit, since few had the strength to stand up to them, and Starfleet wouldn't—_couldn't_," she corrected, after a brief pause brimming with derision, "step in."

The Kai's hands were white-knuckled, clenched so tight it must be painful. "Except, of course, that you _can_ break your Prime Directive, and you have in the past. Some of your most celebrated captains are famous for it, so determined to do the 'right thing' that the threat of a court-martial is nothing. A court-martial which never took place, or which let them off with a slap on the wrist."

She'd done her research. Orion was at more of a disadvantage than he could have imagined. 

The Kai turned just enough to look back at Orion, a tightly controlled motion, all coiled strength and restrained fury. "The Prime Directive has been broken, in the past, to save the life of one Federation citizen. Since I learned this, I've had one question for Starfleet." Incaendium exhaled slowly, turning fully to face Orion. "How many Bajoran lives would equal the life of one Federation citizen?"

Orion couldn't maintain eye contact. The Kai watched him squirm for a moment longer before continuing on. "There's no answer to that question, I know. Because the purpose of the Prime Directive isn't to protect other civilizations from the Federation. It's to protect the Federation from what it fears most: the idea that it is not as perfect as it wants to be. 

"So you won't interfere with our 'development,' but you'll encourage us to apply for Federation membership. I suppose once we're approved for membership, you can do whatever you like with no qualms. By the time that happens, of course, we’ll already have shaped ourselves into what you want us to be. That's an acceptable outcome to you, because you wouldn’t have directly _exerted influence_, as you put it."

The Kai let her hands fall to her sides and crossed the room in a few long strides to stand directly in front of Orion. "You misunderstand my motivations in publicly declaring you to be the Emissary, Orion Pax." She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. "Bajor is struggling," she admitted, her voice softened, carrying all the weight of half a century of oppression. "When Megatron returns from wherever he has gone, we cannot hope to fend him off without the aid of Starfleet. It may be difficult for Bajorans like Metalhawk to accept, but Bajor needs the Federation. At least for now.

"So when I call you the Emissary, I am not asking you to lord over us, dictate your Federation vision of what Bajor should be. I am _demanding_ you take responsibility for what the Federation has already done by accepting the duty the Prophets have given you. If Bajor is to accept Federation aid, they need a reason to trust that someone in Starfleet has Bajor's interests in mind, that someone in Starfleet is _accountable_ to Bajor. The Prophets, not I, are the ultimate Bajoran authority." The Kai's voice gained a sharp edge, startling Orion into meeting her eyes again. "It is not your choice to make. You now answer to them." 

The room fell quiet. The wormhole was somewhere out there, outside the window, invisible now without a ship passing through it. Orion wondered if those aliens—the Prophets—were watching.

He felt like he was going to be sick. 

"You have already left your mark on Bajor, Orion Pax." The Kai moved past him, but didn't exit the commander's office just yet. "It seems only fair that Bajor leave its mark on you."

The Kai stepped out, and the doors shut, leaving Orion painfully, horribly alone.

* * *

_Optimus recognized this scene: Zeta Prime dying, his scheme turned against him. He deserved it. But a joined Trill's duty was first and foremost to the symbiont, and as Zeta's blood drained from his body, Orion Pax realized he was the only option for the new host._

_He recognized this, too: his vision blurring, Orion Pax standing over him, heartbeat loud in his ears and getting slower every second. If the symbiont was going to survive, Pax was going to have to be the next host. Failure tasted metallic on his tongue._

_Orion Pax looked down at him with judgment in his eyes and said, "This is not linear. You remember this twice."_

_Optimus Prime shook his head, and the motion didn't feel quite right. This body wasn’t his. "One of these memories isn't mine."_

_"You identify with your memories. You say you are defined by the events of the 'past.’"_

_"Not this one. I have many other memories that I hold dear, but not this one. You showed me Megatron, you showed me Shockwave earlier. They… I… I don’t want to be here."_

_He struggled to breathe. There was no pity in Pax’s eyes. “But you exist here.”_

* * *

Prowl looked Orion over quickly, lips pressed together into a straight line, before returning his attention to the ornate box resting on the table in front of him. "Admiral Prime. I take it your meeting with the Kai was less than satisfactory," he remarked, scanning the box with a tricorder.

That was one way to put it. "I'd rather not talk about it." 

"You'll have to at some point," Prowl replied helpfully, "but right now everyone's very interested in this Orb the Kai's lent us. Attempting to scan it while it's inside the box has resulted in data that defies all logic. Hopefully outside of the box, it can actually be analyzed." He finished his scan, frowned slightly, and stepped aside. "The Kai was insistent that you be the one to open it."

Bumblebee had mentioned that the orbs… 'gave people visions,' but he hadn't gone into specifics. If an orb vision was anything like Orion's experience in the wormhole, though, he'd rather not go through one. He wasn't sure he could stand another round of "but your memories are not linear" and a resulting interrogation on how memories—

Well, Orion didn't have to worry about _that_ anymore, but regardless. 

He moved forward to take a closer look at the box. It looked harmless enough, its intricately detailed surface both beautiful and a clear indicator of the value of its contents. Awe would have been the appropriate reaction, or humility, or even surprise that Kai Incaendium had been willing to part with an object of such value to the Bajoran people. 

All Orion felt as he approached was trepidation.

Prowl was watching him expectantly. Orion was already taking too long. Before he could think any more about it, Orion opened the box.

Contrary to the name, the Orb wasn't remotely orb-shaped, much more resembling an hourglass. A gimmick of translation, the dormant linguist in Orion supposed. Whatever material it was made out of looked almost unreal, a mass of shimmering lights and not a physical thing. The bright light the Orb emanated made its shape indistinct, but it was obviously suspended in air without touching any side of the box it resided in. 

It was entrancing to look at, for all its confusing properties. Without thinking, Orion reached out to touch—

—and found himself somewhere else. 

It took a moment for this new setting to resolve itself into somewhere familiar: Orion's old dorm room at Starfleet Academy. He hadn't been there in decades, much less thought about it. One of the aliens in the wormhole had spoken to him using the voice and face of a younger Megatron, but their surroundings at the time had been vague and out of focus. 

This was vivid, distinct, more precise than memory could ever be. Orion was out of uniform, in short sleeves, the fabric soft and thin against his skin. He breathed in. The air smelled like San Francisco, felt a touch warmer than was comfortable, nothing like the recycled oxygen and carefully controlled temperatures of starships and space stations. His face, when he touched it, was clean-shaven. As far as Orion could tell he was his younger self again, no older than twenty by his guess.

For a moment he was all sensation. He was young, and simple, and complete. 

The door slid open with a soft sound. Instinct led Orion to turn to face it. It didn't even occur to him that someone had to be behind the door.

It didn't even occur to him that that someone would be—"Megatron."

"Orion," Megatron returned after a moment's pause, adjusting the strap of the duffel bag on his shoulder. "Sorry, did I startle you? I didn't think you were back on Earth yet."

Now things were clicking into place. This must be the start of Orion's second year at the Academy: mid-September, 2337. Why the Orb had brought him back here in this… vision was a mystery. What was Orion meant to do? Megatron was acting like his 19-year-old self, not making bizarre statements like in the wormhole, asking Orion to explain concepts he couldn't begin to break down.

Playing along with the vision seemed the most reasonable course of action for now. Orion racked his brain, trying to remember what had actually happened back in 2337. "My shuttle landed earlier than expected,” he said. “I should've sent you a message. I just got… lost in my thoughts, I guess." Megatron seemed to accept that, nodding and setting his bag down on the carpeted floor.

Intellectually, Orion had known Megatron had changed significantly from his Academy years. But hearing Megatron call him 'Orion' in a friendly tone, seeing him tuck a strand of his long, dark hair behind his ear—when was it he'd cut it? After they'd graduated, surely. _Why_ had he cut it? Orion had always told him—

Orion said, "It's good to see you," and he meant it, felt himself smiling.

"It's good to see you too," Megatron replied with a grin, taking a seat on one of the room’s beds. "You know, the whole time I was on Solarion IV—the conference was fascinating, but I kept thinking, _I wish Orion was here._" He paused, then added dryly, "I guess it wouldn't have interested you much, though. No one talking about… the history of Vulcan sentence structure or the… the sociological implications of speech registers."

Despite himself, Orion chuckled, sitting on his own bed, opposite from Megatron. "Now I'm actually very interested in hearing about both of those subjects."

"Of course you are." Megatron's pleased expression gave way to a thoughtful one, his tone becoming sincere instead of wry. "But, you know, I _was_ looking forward to you showing me around Trill. Instead, we had hardly any time to even call each other."

"I'll have plenty of opportunities to show you the Tenaran ice cliffs," Orion assured. He remembered this, felt an echo of the dismay he'd felt 30 years ago. The knowledge that he had shown Megatron—would show Megatron?—the cliffs multiple times before they graduated made his younger self's disappointment seem inconsequential. "If you hadn't accepted your professor's invitation, you'd have kicked yourself over it the whole time you were on Trill."

Megatron scoffed. “I was kicking myself for accepting the invitation the whole time I was on Solarion IV.” As soon as he said it, though, he shook his head as if to clear his mind of the thought. “No, you’re right, I'm being too negative. I just wanted to complain."

"I figured." At that, Megatron gave Orion a mock-offended look, which only grew more affronted when Orion huffed out a laugh. "You're the most pessimistic idealist I know."

"Now that's just not true. I wanted to spend time with you over the summer, and I didn't, and it lowered my mood. So, I was negative. That's not pessimism." Megatron leaned back against the wall, not even bothering to try and sound offended. "I _know_ things are going to turn out for the best."

"I'd forgotten you were clairvoyant."

"We'll see who's laughing in a decade when I'm Starfleet's youngest captain, commanding the fleet's flagship and exploring the farthest reaches of the galaxy."

It took Orion a moment to respond to that, and when he did, it was with less conviction than he wanted. "I thought part of that plan was me by your side, after having made great leaps and bounds in the workings of the universal translator." He had to pause before adding, "To help you make first contact."

"Of course." Megatron's voice softened. "I wouldn't want to do it without you." Orion watched as, with a sigh, Megatron scooted forward just enough to snag a padd from his bag and returned to his leaning position against the wall. "Though," he remarked with a wry expression, "I have a lot of work to do if I want that to happen."

That had been Megatron's constant complaint throughout their Academy years. "If you're not cut out for command, you could always switch out of command track."

"I'll do it," Megatron replied smoothly, not even looking up from the padd. "_If_ you apply for the joining program."

The exchange was one they'd repeated so many times throughout their friendship it was more muscle memory than conscious thought. Maybe that was why Orion hadn't ever really remembered it, all it meant. The complete certainty they'd had in the earliest days of adulthood was baffling to reflect on now.

He should've returned, "Don't even joke about that," in a fondly exasperated tone of voice. But he couldn't, he wasn't that person anymore. Now the silence was stretching on too long. Megatron looked up at him, hair falling in his eyes.

"You know," Orion said, eyes fixed on the ground, trying and failing to sound casual, "what if I did apply for the joining program?"

Megatron set the padd down beside him and clasped his hands in his lap, one thumb stroking the back of the other in an unconscious motion. He exhaled. That wasn't the response he'd expected to his friendly jibe.

Some part of Orion thought, viciously, _this isn't really him, he isn't real, this is idiotic,_ but—was this vision being Megatron the point? Did he remember who Megatron had been as well as he thought he did? Did he want to?

"Do you want to apply?" Megatron asked, slow, careful. "Did something happen on Trill?"

"I've just been thinking about it," was Orion's non-answer. "You know, people get joined to new symbionts, who don't have any memories of past hosts, and—I mean, that's hardly anything, if you think about it."

"They don't introduce new symbionts very often. You're far more likely to get a symbiont that's already had at least one host. Which—" Megatron cut himself off, frustrated, his expression a mixture of confusion and concern. "Are you really considering it? I thought… because you've always—" 

"Even if," Orion spoke over Megatron, and his own voice sounded desperate to him in a strange, foreign way, "even if I was joined to a symbiont with… any number of past hosts. I know I've always said I wanted to make a name for myself, by myself, but—do you think it would really change who I was? It's just having more memories, really."

"I—" And Orion could tell, in that instant, that Megatron was going to say it wasn't just memories, but he reconsidered, caught himself just in time. "At the core, you'd still be the same Orion. I mean, you'll always be Orion, even in five decades with all _those_ new memories, so—"

He couldn't keep this charade going. "Am I?"

It didn't make sense. None of this would make sense, to a 19-year old Megatron who was looking at his best friend like he'd lost his mind. "Orion—"

"—Prime," Prowl was saying, "are you alright?"

Orion flinched, a full body jerk, and only barely managed to keep from falling to the ground. For a moment he felt like he and his body were misaligned, offset by a matter of centimeters. A blink later, and the world righted itself, became familiar again. 

He was in the lab, standing in front of the Orb, in the same place he'd been in what felt like minutes ago. Prowl was staring at him in concern. The tricorder in his hand beeped. 

Casting a glance down to the hand he'd touched the Orb with, Orion saw nothing, felt nothing out of the ordinary. 

"Pax," he corrected, unthinking. That vision had felt so real, returning to the present almost seemed wrong. Orion touched his face and felt the rasp of stubble. He exhaled. This would be fine, he just needed to orient himself, catch his breath. "How long was I touching the Orb?"

"Approximately six seconds. From your point of view—"

"A few minutes," Orion answered quickly. _Six seconds._ His mind reeled. "I had a… a vision." Regret hit the instant he said it; questions about what he'd seen were the last thing he wanted.

"According to the Bajorans, the Orbs induce intense hallucinations." Hearing Prowl say that in his clinical, detached way, Orion felt a stab of something unpleasant in his stomach. "I'd be interested to know what causes that, though more Orbs for comparison would be optimal." Prowl paused, expression thoughtful. "What did you see?"

Immediately, Orion responded, "I'd rather not talk about it." Or think about it, even.

Prowl searched Orion's face for a long moment before dropping his gaze back to the tricorder. "I see.” He tapped a finger against the tricorder, his unease reflecting Orion’s own disorientation. “The Kai insisted you open the box, but you can leave now if you want," he offered, a surprisingly merciful gesture. “I should have some data you'll find interesting in a few hours."

It felt vaguely ridiculous that in reality Orion had come in to open the box and then leave barely a minute later, but he was too shaken to care about what was proper or polite. As he turned to leave, he very nearly stumbled over his feet; he barely had the presence of mind to mumble a thanks to Prowl on his way out. 

There was nothing waiting for him in the hallway but quiet. He wanted to be anywhere but here, anywhere but on Terok Nor, anywhere far away from Bajor, half planet and half cemetery and, according to the Kai, his responsibility.

No one could see him. Orion was allowed to cover his face with his hands and slump against the wall. He was allowed to feel overwhelmed and unprepared. To feel like he wasn’t—

Orion breathed in. He collected himself and stood up straight. Running far away from Bajor wasn't an option.

The Ark would do for now. 

Orion asked the computer for directions to the appropriate airlock and started walking.

Most of the Federation fleet assembled at Bajor had left, Decepticon ships in tow, headed towards the nearest starbase to settle terms and conduct repairs—and, to some extent, to get the Decepticons away from Bajor. The Ark was one of the few ships still docked at Terok Nor, its personnel too embroiled in diplomatic concerns to leave.

Orion hadn't been back to the Ark yet. It hadn't seemed important; how much could the ship have changed over the course of three weeks? But it was Orion's ship, and though he wasn't quite as devoted to it as some captains were to theirs, he needed something familiar to remind him of who he was, what he'd done.

The walkways and airlocks of Terok Nor were strange, its design intimidating. Stepping back onto his ship felt like a weight lifting off of Orion's shoulders. This he remembered, in a clear and selfish way. 

Encountering the Kai had shaken Orion's confidence, and the Orb vision had left him confused. Here, Orion started to feel like himself again. For all that there was something eerie about the Ark's practically deserted halls, he knew what he was here. He'd led this ship through battles and disasters before, sat in the captain's chair and quelled diplomatic incidents.

Instinct directed him back to his quarters, keying in his code without needing to think about it. Nothing had changed inside. The same padds were strewn haphazardly across his desk; the same potted plants were wilting after weeks without water. It was all exactly where Orion had left it. Untouched and unchanged.

There hadn’t been preparations for a funeral, Rodimus had said, because Orion had been presumed dead only to turn up alive multiple times before. Orion had chuckled, mostly because he thought he was supposed to. Standing here now, he felt like a stranger in his own quarters.

He made his way over to his bed to sit down, suddenly exhausted, and closed his eyes. For a moment the sheets beneath his fingers were the Starfleet standard of thirty years ago. And there was Megatron, across from him, telling him things he couldn't believe. A conversation that had never happened.

Orion realized, with a sudden clarity, that nothing in this room had belonged to him from before he was joined. Collecting keepsakes had never been a priority for him, but over the course of his captaincy his quarters had only become more and more spartan. 

His captaincy. He'd captained the Ark for less than a year before Zeta's death. During that time, he'd felt… much the same way he was feeling now. Overwhelmed and unprepared. Command had never been his goal, just as being joined had never been his goal, but both had been forced upon him. Just as the role of the Emissary was being forced upon him now.

Orion took his shoes off and laid down. He couldn't sleep, there were too many thoughts in his head, but he needed to lay down. The ceiling said nothing, meant nothing, not like the room around him. He couldn’t stand to look at it all anymore.

Three weeks later, everything was the same. But the familiarity wasn't comforting.

Everything was the same, he realized, except him.

* * *

_Optimus recognized this scene: Prowl staring at him from across a three-dimensional chessboard, eyes narrowed in concentration, chin resting in his hand. "This is adversarial. Conflict."_

_"A sanitized imitation of conflict," Optimus replied, surveying the board. “It’s a game. For fun, and mental exercise. Chess. Three-dimensional chess, to be specific.” They were well into the game, with no clear advantage on either side. Glancing around informed him they were in his quarters, but he couldn’t clearly date this memory, and besides all his chess games with Prowl blurred into each other after a while. Hindsight wouldn’t offer him an easy strategy._

_“Chess,” Prowl said, like the word was completely foreign to him._

_Optimus had very little desire to explain chess to an entity who would have just as little context for the concept of a king and a horse, nevermind the religious connotations of a bishop. He reached out to wrap his fingers around a pawn, tapping a finger against the board in thought. “It’s dependent on too many corporeal concepts to explain easily,” he hedged, then paused. His fingers stilled. “But the details aren't the point. Each of these pieces moves on this board a different way, pieces can be removed from the board by other pieces, that's all irrelevant. Chess is linear."_

_The realization felt like a victory. "When I move this pawn, it'll be Prowl's turn. I have no idea what he'll do. He could sacrifice his bishop for my knight, he could move out his own pawn. I can try to predict what he'll do, and he can try to predict what I'll do, and we can prepare for the possible consequences." Optimus moved the pawn one space forward. "But we don't know for certain what's going to happen next. There are millions upon millions of possible games of chess, any numbers of ways a game can go from the very first move."_

_Amazingly enough, Prowl—the entity—actually seemed to understand. "And you won't know which way a game goes until it is complete. Until every move has been made."_

_"Games have to have an end. But no one wants to play a game if they already know what that end will be."_

_Prowl looked up, baffled. "You find… entertainment in your lack of knowledge?"_

_"More than that. Much more than that. Not knowing is… freedom. There’s nothing we value more than freedom.” Optimus couldn’t help smiling. This was a breakthrough, successful communication with an alien species unlike any encountered before. “We are able to search for our own answers, to ask our own questions, to do what we want and learn what we want. Some say that the distinguishing factor of an intelligent species is curiosity: the desire to know more. The desire to be more. That’s what I want: to know more about you, in the hopes that we can coexist.”_

_Zeta Prime’s body, broken and bleeding. Orion Pax stumbled back in shock, his breath catching in his throat. He watched Zeta’s fingers twitch, watched the slow trickle of dark blood from the corner of his mouth. He felt sick, and he wasn’t sure if that was him or the memory._

_“If all that you say is true,” Zeta rasped, “why do you exist here?”_

* * *

Orion woke up in his quarters at 0600 hours on the dot. The profound calm of absolute certainty came over him, a sensation he hadn’t known for many years. 

He knew what he had to do.

By 0630, he had eaten a simple breakfast and gotten dressed. 

By 0730, he had drafted his letter of resignation.

By 0800, he was walking, padd in hand, into the middle of his senior staff having a heated argument in Ops. Amidst all the yelling and gesturing, it was little surprise that no one turned to look at Orion, in the unassuming style and muted tones of his civilian clothes.

In the center of the commotion were, predictably, Rodimus, Prowl, and Bumblebee. Bumblebee’s expression and outstretched palms spoke more of dismay than anger, but Prowl and Rodimus were visibly seething; Prowl tightly contained, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, while Rodimus leaned into Bumblebee’s space, his gestures agitated. Drift and Ultra Magnus stood as silent, uncomfortable onlookers to the scene. 

“Maybe you’ve forgotten,” Rodimus hissed, “but peaceful exploration is what Starfleet is _supposed_ to be for. The way I see it, this is what we should be doing, to remind everyone—to remind _us_—of our original purpose.”

Bumblebee laughed, short and harsh. _“Original purpose,”_ he returned, with air quotes Orion would’ve expected from Ratchet. “That’s a high-minded way to say you’re going gallivanting off through the wormhole based on an Orb-induced _hallucination_ because you think acting responsible for once in your life will kill you. We’re both too old for your tantrums, grow up—”

_“This is me growing up!”_ Everyone in the room started, Bumblebee falling into a shocked silence, staring at Rodimus with wide eyes. “I’m barely younger than you, and we have the same rank, you know, even if you seem to forget that. I’m making this decision, and I don’t care what you think of it.”

Prowl scoffed. “Well, don’t expect Starfleet support for this endeavor,” he said coldly. “You and Drift are free to do as you like, but you’ll be heading into the Gamma Quadrant _alone._ Starfleet will not give you a ship, or a crew—”

“I’ll go with you.” Ultra Magnus spoke at a low volume, but every head in the room instantly turned to stare at him.

Bumblebee gave a flat “What?” at the same time as Prowl almost yelled it. Both continued to speak over each other, Prowl saying something about having expected better while Bumblebee implored Ultra Magnus to be the voice of reason. Rodimus’ initially shocked expression was undergoing a rapid transformation into delight. Behind him, Drift looked vaguely alarmed.

Ultra Magnus raised his voice to be heard over Prowl and Bumblebee, but otherwise appeared completely unfazed. “Rodimus is right. During the war, Starfleet didn’t have the resources to be anything more than a military force. But the war is over now, and we need to look past it, to remember the ideals that define us. Without them, Starfleet is nothing.”

“This discussion is ridiculous,” Prowl muttered, shaking his head. “You people want to talk about ‘looking past the war’ like we’re not still living in it. It’s not that simple.”

This had gone on long enough. Orion stepped forward, holding his padd close. “But the war _is over,_ Prowl, and we have to move on,” he said. “We should never have let ourselves lose sight of the Federation’s ideals during it. It’s all we can do to remember them now.”

Stunned, Prowl whirled around to face Orion, opening his mouth to speak but too surprised to say a word. Orion cleared his throat, uncomfortably aware of everyone’s eyes on him. He’d enjoyed his brief period of anonymity. “You’ll have to put in some work to plan everything, Rodimus, but there’s no reason you can’t go through the wormhole to explore the Gamma Quadrant. I’m sure you’ll be able to find people willing to join your crew.”

Rodimus blinked. “Thank you,” he said hesitantly. Orion wasn’t sure when he’d last expressed approval towards Rodimus. This, he supposed, would be one of his last opportunities.

Prowl overcame his surprise, coming back to his senses. “Admiral,” he began, but Orion cut him off, holding out the padd. After staring for a moment, Prowl took it, looking perplexed.

“I didn’t come here to settle your argument. I came here to show you all this padd.” Orion gestured towards it, and Rodimus and Bumblebee immediately crowded around an uncomfortable-looking Prowl to see. Drift and Magnus hung back; Drift looked, as he often did around Orion, like he would rather be anywhere else. Ultra Magnus was clearly curious, but respected Prowl’s personal space too much to take a look.

Orion could pinpoint exactly when realization dawned on Prowl from the way his grip on the padd tightened and his eyes widened. It was the second before he said, disbelieving, “It’s a letter of resignation.”

There was a moment before anyone knew how to react, during which Orion closed his eyes, breathed in, and steeled himself for what was coming next.

The first comment was “Is _that_ why you’re in civvies?” from Rodimus, which wasn’t what Orion had been expecting, exactly. 

The next was a despairing “You too?” from Bumblebee, which was more in line with Orion’s expectations. 

Hearing Bumblebee seemed to remind Rodimus of the greater implications of Orion’s resignation. He blinked, shaking himself awake. “Wait. You’re _retiring?_ As in, you’re just going to—leave us here to deal with all of… this ourselves?”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Bumblebee spat.

Rodimus flailed his arms around before emphatically pointing at Orion. “_He’s_ an admiral! _He’s_ supposed to be around for diplomatic situations like this!” He jabbed his hands towards the center of his chest. “_I’m_ supposed to be _captain_ing a starship!”

That shifted Bumblebee’s focus quite firmly away from Orion and onto Rodimus, launching him into saying that _both_ of them were needed here and reviving their argument. There was no follow up from Prowl, still glaring at the padd like he could change its contents through sheer force of will. He was holding it so tightly Orion was worried he might break it.

Ultra Magnus stepped carefully around the huddle of Rodimus, Prowl, and Bumblebee in order to make direct eye contact with Orion. He was clearly all too aware of the renewed argument behind him and making a valiant effort to ignore it. “Sir, with all due respect, this is not a sound decision.”

Orion sighed. “I assure you, I’ve thought it through a great deal. It’s what I should do.”

Magnus mulled that over for a second. “While I don’t doubt that you’ve treated this decision with the necessary consideration,” he said gingerly, “you have been through something of… an emotional shock, very recently. Under these circumstances, it would be understandable that—”

“I’m not,” Orion said firmly, “_emotionally compromised,_ or—this is the correct decision. I am not needed here. In fact, it’s clear that my continued presence here would do far more harm than good.”

“You _are_ emotionally compromised,” Prowl snapped, suddenly in motion, holding up the padd in one hand while shoving past Rodimus and Bumblebee to stand next to Magnus. Apparently having forgotten Prowl was next to them, Rodimus and Bumblebee shut up and stepped back. “Which is a temporary problem that you are trying to address with a permanent solution. We scraped our way through three weeks of negotiations with the Bajorans. We only started getting anywhere when the Kai said you were the Emissary.”

"That’s _exactly why_ I can't stay here," Orion said through gritted teeth.

"No, no.” Bumblebee stepped forward, waving a hand dismissively. “That’s exactly why you can't _leave._ I know you have concerns about being the Emissary. It’s… a big deal. We all have concerns. But the Bajorans will have a fit if you just—pack your bags and go running off somewhere. The Emissary abandoning Bajor—"

"I'm not the Emissary. I _can't_ be the Emissary,” Orion stressed. “Do you understand what that means for the people down there?"

Bumblebee looked at him with a focused intensity that made Orion feel like he was under a microscope. “I was under the impression that it isn’t exactly your choice.”

And, well. Wasn’t that just it? None of this had really been Orion’s choice. He’d only ever been swept along by other people’s motives, other people’s schemes, for what felt like most of his life. He wasn’t sure how much of him was really his. 

“No,” he agreed, “it’s not. But retiring is. And it’s the right choice, for me to take a step back from Bajor. I am the emblem of what Starfleet became during the war. I can’t handle this situation, moving past the war, me being the Emissary. I’m not the person you need here.”

Not anymore, he thought, and maybe it showed in his expression, because there were no smart remarks. There was just his crew—his old crew—staring at him, helpless, leaderless.

Prowl handed him back the padd, but wouldn’t meet his eyes. Orion took it back. Its weight was strange in his hands.

“I’ll stay until negotiations with Bajor over the station have concluded,” he conceded, holding the padd in two hands, close to his body. “After that, Bumblebee, you’re in charge. And Rodimus, you’re free to go.”

It was Prowl who acknowledged the casually-phrased, but no less authoritative order with a terse “Understood.” Orion turned to go.

By 0830, Orion was back in his quarters in the Ark, revising his letter of resignation and wondering what the future would look like without Optimus Prime.

* * *

_Optimus had to close his eyes, catch his breath, remind himself that this wasn’t real. For all his efforts, he couldn’t block out the smell of blood surrounding him. “I told you, I don’t want to be here.”_

_Bumblebee’s voice came from behind him, and Optimus started; he’d forgotten Bumblebee was part of this memory. He was different. He was younger. “We do not bring you here.”_

_“You bring us here,” Zeta affirmed, and Optimus wondered if even in death, there was something smug in his expression, some glimmer of satisfaction at the knowledge his memories would continue to live on._

_“You exist here.” In the original memory, that would’ve been Ratchet telling him in a low, frustrated voice the chances of Zeta surviving, of the Prime symbiont surviving. _

_“I—being joined was… formative, yes. Is that what you mean?”_

_He was Zeta again, weak and pained and angry. “You exist here,” Pax was saying, alive and self-righteous and fully capable of being joined. Shockwave’s old favorite. Funny how these things worked out. Funny how..._

_“When I was young,” Optimus exhaled as Zeta, “I never wanted to be joined.” And it wasn’t even a secret, really, but saying it out loud here felt like a confession, like reaching into his ribcage and closing a hand around his heart. “I never thought…”_

_“If we get him to the ship now, there might be a chance,” Ratchet muttered, but the way he glared made it clear he didn’t think Zeta deserved it. “To save the symbiont, at least, if not him.”_

_“I exist here,” he admitted, he realized. “It changed me. To be joined. To realize I was going to be joined. I was always scared of it, when I was younger, for all my other justifications, and I never went through the joining program to be trained, and if our memories are what make us, _us,_ then being joined would make me…”_

_Orion nodded. In the memory, it should have been towards Ratchet. Here, he was looking directly at Zeta, understanding in his eyes. “None of your past experiences helped prepare you for this consequence.”_

_“I... can’t tell where I end and Prime begins. If there even is a difference. And it… haunts me.”_

_“So you choose to exist here. It is not linear.”_

_“No.” Optimus was exhausted. He let his eyes close. “It’s not linear.”_

* * *

Everything was finished. 

Negotiations had concluded the evening prior. Terok Nor was renamed Deep Space Nine, a Bajoran space station under Starfleet authority, with Metalhawk as the official Bajoran liaison and first officer. Orion couldn’t fathom why the man had _volunteered_ for the duty, given his apparent disdain for Starfleet; but then again, maybe that was exactly why.

He’d spent the previous night packing his few personal belongings. He’d spent this morning saying his goodbyes. But he’d wanted to leave alone, with little fanfare, so here Orion was, standing down the hall from the airlock, suitcase in one hand.

Staring at the Kai, who was blocking his way to the door.

How exactly she'd caught wind of when and where Orion was departing escaped him. Since their disastrous first encounter, Orion had been under the impression that she was back on Bajor. Then again, the Bajoran church and state were closely intertwined, so perhaps he should've expected that the Kai knew more than she let on. It was clear that decorum wouldn't stop her from doing what she wanted.

He had a feeling he knew what she was here for. Adjusting his grip on the suitcase, he walked forward, aiming for a conversational distance that would keep his ears firmly out of grabbing range. "Good morning, Eminence," he said, leaning more towards curt than polite.

"Good morning, Emissary." The title made Orion wince; he suspected that was a conscious decision. "I am aware you plan to leave. I am also aware that you're not on a strict schedule. I'd hoped we might have a short conversation before your departure."

Orion let out a long exhale and stared at the airlock door, less than a meter away. The Kai watched him, patiently awaiting an answer. Orion couldn't say no, no matter how much he wanted to, and she knew it. He didn't even try to hide his reluctance when he said, "Of course."

The Kai smiled, tight-lipped, her eyes cold. Her voice was equally icy. "Thank you. I was gratified to learn that negotiations between our people proceeded smoothly, with your help. It will take time to get used to Deep Space Nine, but it was a wise choice to wipe the slate clean." The even tone the Kai spoke in did nothing to diminish the feeling that Orion was being insulted. "Terok Nor carried many years of ugly history. Some Bajorans wanted the station demolished entirely for what it represented."

Orion worked his jaw and carefully thought through what he should say next. “I’m glad,” he began slowly, “that we were able to avoid that outcome. The station and the wormhole represent a great opportunity for Bajor.”

“Certainly.” The Kai nodded, a slow and dignified motion. “The departure of the Emissary, however...”

This conversation was not going in that direction if Orion had anything to say about it. “However it was you learned I was leaving today," he interjected, speaking quickly, "I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make this public knowledge." He gave the Kai a wan smile. "I’m sure you understand why.”

“I know you haven’t visited Bajor once over the past weeks. I know that Metalhawk and I are the only Bajorans you’ve actually held a conversation with. I know that you consider all this,” the Kai waved halfheartedly towards Orion’s suitcase, “a necessity, given your Federation ideals.” Her expression soured as she spoke, her unenthused smile sliding towards contempt. "Yes, I understand perfectly."

“I told you as much when we first met. The Prime Directive—”

“I told you what I thought of your Prime Directive then, as well.” Incaendium took a step forward; Orion barely resisted the urge to take a step back. “Since you clearly haven't taken the time to consider my words, I see no reason I should consider yours.”

For a desperate moment, Orion debated the merits of just running for it. Surely the Kai wouldn't go so far as to try and stop him if he pushed past her to get to his ship—but he wasn't certain enough to actually go for it. 

He tightened his grip on his suitcase instead, his whole body tensing. “You don’t actually think you can stop me from leaving," he said, his tone warning. Somewhere along the way what was intended as a question had become a statement of fact.

The Kai clasped her hands behind her back and dropped any pretense at a smile. “I'm realistic in my goals. That wasn’t my intention in coming here.”

Orion stared at her blankly. “Then what do you want?”

“In an ideal universe, I would stop you from leaving,” was the Kai’s dry response. “You would stay here to supervise Starfleet aid in rebuilding Bajor.” She paused, glancing to the side, the only sign of uncertainty Orion had seen her express in their limited interactions. “I'm willing to settle for giving you something to think about before you leave.”

Orion blinked. This didn’t make any sense. “You’re not trying to convince me to stay?”

Completely self-assured, Incaendium replied, “I trust in the Prophets to bring the Emissary back where he belongs.”

It took a great deal of willpower for Orion to keep from laughing hysterically. Of course. “You really do believe that I’m the Emissary,” he said, wondering. Where the Kai found her faith was a mystery to him. “I’m sorry, I truly am, but I can’t be. That prophecy about my—about the Emissary’s arrival…” He cast his gaze downward. “The Prophets didn't give me my life back. They killed me."

The Kai regarded him emotionlessly, a slight narrowing of her eyes the only indication of any reaction to Orion’s words. "Is that how you see it?"

Orion didn’t have the time or the desire to play this game. “It is,” he said, trying his best to keep his tone even. “I lived so many years as Optimus Prime. I commanded a starship as him. I led my men as him, and they trusted me. I knew what I was doing then. I knew who I _was_ then, and it was someone…” He meant to stop there, to cut himself off before he admitted something he didn’t want to, but his mouth formed the word before his mind caught up. “...Better.”

The word hung heavy in the air between them. There was pity in Incaendium’s eyes, and a touch of condescension, and Orion couldn’t stand to see it. “And you really do believe that man is dead.”

"It's not a matter of _belief_." Orion shook his head, one hand to his forehead. "You couldn't understand. You're not a Trill. You've never been _joined,_” he almost spat. “You can't live with _centuries_ of other people's memories in your head and claim you're the same person without them." Because it was different, knowing things, remembering things. It made him more confident in his actions, it put things into perspective, it made Optimus Prime someone Orion Pax could never have been.

“No,” the Kai admitted, with a heavy sigh, “I haven’t been joined. Perhaps that means I can’t understand, and perhaps that’s why I can’t convince you to stay. But,” she added, just as Orion was breathing in to speak, “I do know this.”

Orion was suddenly overcome by a feeling of intense dread.

It was the lack of anger in Incaendium’s voice that made her words so piercing. “You can escape me by running from Bajor, but you won’t escape the Prophets.” There was something foreboding in the way she emphasized the name. “And certainly not yourself.” 

She paused, and stared at Orion like she was looking right through him. Finally, she stepped aside. “Have a safe journey.”

“Thank you,” Orion said, before he thought about it, deliberately not thinking about anything the Kai had said. He opened the airlock door. Incaendium waited for a long moment before she nodded and walked away.

* * *

_Personal log, stardate 46393.1. This is the first log I will make on this ship, and the first log I have made in my memory as a civilian, not a Starfleet officer._

_I depart from the newly-christened Deep Space Nine, knowing that I have left it in the hands of my most trusted colleagues. I admit that I leave with mixed feelings. Tensions are high. Negotiations with Bajor were difficult. I can only imagine that without my presence, continued relations will be… frustrating. I don’t envy Bumblebee his position, but I believe in his ability to rise to the challenge._

_And then, of course, there’s Megatron. His absence has kept us all on edge. Out there, as an unknown, he is far more dangerous than he ever was on the front lines of the war. There’s a part of me that still wants to chase after him, even if I have to do it myself, even if I don’t know what I would do upon meeting him. It’s a ridiculous notion and would almost certainly get me killed. In this, again, I simply have to trust that the people I’ve left behind will be up to the task. That the Decepticons can make new lives away from their leader and render him powerless._

_It’s strange, to now step back and hand my duties over to people who were once my subordinates. The idea of not being in command, after all these years, is almost frightening. But when I consider the alternative… it’s clear that this is what I have to do. _

_The Bajoran people do not need me as their Emissary. I could only do more harm than good, despite the Kai’s insistence otherwise. She has a certain gravity… her confidence in her own authority lends her authority. My conversations with her were interesting, though I’m afraid I must disagree with her on many counts._

_But I suppose she was correct on one thing: I can retire from Starfleet. I can leave Bajor and reject my role as the Emissary. But I cannot escape myself._

_The truth is that this decision is, in part, selfish. I did not choose to take command. I did not choose to become joined. I did not choose to be the Emissary. _

_I am choosing, now, to be free. Of responsibilities, of expectations, of obligations that belonged to Optimus Prime._

_Optimus Prime is dead. The person I was is dead. _

_The Prophets did not give me my life back. I am making the choice, here and now, to find out who I am without the symbiont. I am making the choice for Orion Pax to be reborn._

**Author's Note:**

> (Kai Incaendium, if it isn't clear, is the Mistress of Flame; I needed to give her an actual name, and prior to her becoming the Mistress of Flame, she was the Matriarch of Incaendium, so, hey)
> 
> (Also, fun fact: the Google Doc for this fic is titled 'so... no worm? (throws combadge on the ground),' because I always name my wips joke titles and then get too used to them to change them. To be fair, it's a pretty good summary.)
> 
> If you have any questions about this fic or about the Trekformers AU, feel free to shoot me an ask at my TF blog, [rossumtrinity](https://rossumtrinity.tumblr.com/ask)! Even if you just want to ask "Hey, what's my favorite character up to in Trekformers?" I'll be happy to answer.
> 
> My tentative plan is to write a Trekformers "pilot" for both MTMTE and exRID after this, but I can't promise I'll stick with that. Thanks for reading my very self indulgent fic, I love you :*


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